The Beginning of All Things
by Bedelia
Summary: It was just a job — a way to pay the rent and make ends meet. How did it end up changing her life? Well, it all started with an interview.


**The Beginning of All Things**

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_**Disclaimer:**__ I don't own anything related to Harry Potter. This is an amateur, non-profit work.**  
A/N:**__ This is a gift fic for one of my favourite friends I've never met face-to-face, Callinectes.**  
Prompts:**__ Fred's pants, anniversary, snow**  
Pairing:**__ George/Verity_

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**"he followed the sun & she followed the stars & in dreams they listened closely for the beginning of all things, for that was where they knew they'd find each other." — Story People**

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Diagon Alley seemed like a ghost town — one of those the brown, sun-parched, dusty places that Verity had only ever seen in films. She wouldn't have been surprised to see a tumbleweed blow past the quiet shops as she made her way towards her destination. The scant handful of people she encountered all had their heads down, rushing about their business. No one wanted to linger — not when the shadowy danger of You-Know-Who and his Death Eaters loomed over them. Better to be tucked away in their homes, with their quilts over their heads and all of the lamps lit. Then, at least, they might have the illusion of being safe from the monsters that roamed their world.

Verity sighed, feeling a chill seep through her smart robes in spite of the warm June sun that shone on her back.

This was once the place that made her believe in magic.

She remembered sitting in her grandparents' bland, suburban home, listening to Professor Sprout explain that she was a witch, and there was a school in Scotland for magical people just like her. It had all seemed like a colossal joke. The teacup the professor transfigured into a tiny porcelain rose was just a parlour trick, surely. The second that Verity let herself believe that it was true, Professor Sprout would laugh at her for falling for such an obvious prank.

Or so Verity had believed, in all her eleven-year-old wisdom.

But then they journeyed to Diagon Alley, with its un-melting ice cream and owls and Goblin bankers. Pure _magic_ poured from every cobblestone and brick. Verity had walked along, her eyes and mouth as wide as any dazzled tourist, holding her grandfather's hand and looking around in absolute wonder.

If she'd been seeing Diagon Alley for the first time in its current state, plastered with sombre Ministry posters that bore safety advice and frightening photos of escaped Death Eaters, she rather thought it wouldn't have succeeded in convincing her that Professor Sprout was telling the truth.

Forcing her thoughts back to the present, Verity checked the numbers above the shop doors: _89, 91_...almost there.

And then, there it was: bright and buzzing and _daring_. The window display was only half-finished, and a "Closed" sign hung on the door, but the garish shop still managed to look busier than any of the others.

Blinking, Verity re-checked the address she'd scrawled on a bit of parchment. Yes, that was definitely it: Number 93.

Even though she hadn't known the Weasley twins very well when they were in school together, she supposed she should have expected no less from them, given their reputation. Squaring her shoulders, she opened the door and marched into the shop.

She was greeted by a jumble of boxes, overflowing with colourful merchandise that waited to be stacked on the rows and rows of empty shelves. Curious, she explored the aisles. A rough draft of a poster sitting on a shockingly pink display caught her eye: _U-No-Poo — the constipation sensation that's gripping the nation._

Good Lord. Verity raised a hand to stifle her responding laughter. Those two weren't afraid of taking the piss out of anything or anyone, were they?

"Hello?" she called out. "Um, Mr. Weasley? Mr. Weasley?"

Strange, to be calling two of her former classmates "Mr." Still, she desperately needed this job.

When the only reply she received was the hissing sound of excited whispers, Verity worried her lower lip between her teeth and peeked in one of the boxes. _Extendable Ears_? Interesting.

The long, flesh-coloured piece of string unfurled in her hand the instant she picked it up, one end rolling towards the back of the shop. Verity held the other end up to her ear, and was immediately rewarded with a conversation that sounded as if it was taking place right next to her.

"...in our year, wasn't she?"

"Yeah. Hufflepuff?"

"Ravenclaw, I think."

"You sure? She didn't look like the studious type to me...though I _will_ concede that might only be because I was focusing on her tits."

"Ah, yes. Breasts so rarely look like studious types."

"Very true. Hmm, that reminds me: I wonder what Belinda Blishwick is up to since she left Hogwarts."

"Fred. Fred. Oi! Focus, would you?"

"No."

A laugh. "Prat."

"What was her name again?"

"Verity something or other. Verity Brookes?"

"That doesn't sound right."

"Verity Saunders?"

"Oh, yeah. I reckon that's it."

It was not.

"I still say she was a Ravenclaw."

"Maybe she was a Slytherin."

"Don't think so. I'm pretty sure she's Muggleborn."

"Oh, right. Are we going to jump out and surprise her?"

"I don't know. What if she runs off like that bloke from earlier? I think I'd rather like for her and her non-studious chest to stick around."

"True, true. She's a lot more pleasant to look at than he was."

"Oh, that's a bit harsh, mate. I thought the back hair peeking out of his shirt looked quite silky and lustrous."

Another laugh, this one loud enough to be heard without the aid of the Extendable Ear. "What's she up to now?"

"She's...oh. Oh, bugger. She found an Extendable Ear. She's listening to us."

"Really? Well, hello, Miss Saunders!"

Grinning, Verity waved towards the back of the shop.

"How much do you reckon she heard?"

"Only one way to find out."

"Ow, Fred, what are you—"

With a clatter and a thunk, a stocky, redheaded man tumbled out from behind a dark curtain. After clambering to his feet and dusting himself off, he approached Verity with a wide smile.

"Hi," he said, extending his arm towards her for a handshake. A bright light sparked near his fingers, creating a puff of smoke. As the grey cloud dissipated, she saw that he was now clasping a pair of neon pink underwear that were adorned with cartoonish drawings of flying pigs.

A muffled snigger came from behind the curtain.

Verity snorted. "Nice pants," she said, shaking his hand in spite of them.

"Thanks," he said with a laugh, tossing the pants aside. They landed on one of the lamps that was suspended from the ceiling. "They're my brother's. You're here for the interview, yeah?"

She nodded. "I am."

"Well, I'm George, and that weirdo behind the curtain with the bizarre taste in undergarments is Fred."

"I'm Verity West." She smirked, deciding that the smart retort that popped into her mind would be more than appropriate for a job interview with Fred and George. "I was in Ravenclaw at Hogwarts, and despite appearances, both of my breasts have a wide variety of academic interests."

With that, Fred finally emerged into the main area of the shop. He and George exchanged an identical, scheming sort of grin before turning back to Verity and speaking in unison.

"You're hired," they said.

-oOo-

Working for the Weasley twins was even more of an adventure than Verity had anticipated. During the busy times, she could feel every maternal urge she'd ever had being sucked from her body as she chased after rambunctious children who seemed hell-bent on destroying everything in their path. During the slow times, she was often kept in stitches by Fred and George's antics.

Their impersonations of Umbridge and Filch rendered her unable to speak for five minutes, she laughed so hard.

Months passed, and still she couldn't tell them apart most of the time. She continued calling them both "Mr. Weasley" not only because she was almost never sure which of them was Fred and which was George, but also because of the way their eyes lit up when she said it — as if it reminded them that they were succeeding in their dream.

"Verity," George said one early December evening as they were closing up. "You don't have to walk home in this." he gestured at the fat flakes of snow that were slowly carpeting Diagon Alley in white. "Come on upstairs and use our fireplace."

"Oh, thanks, Mr. Weasley—"

"It's George when you're not on the clock."

"Err, thanks, George, but my flat doesn't have a floo connection."

"Oh. Well, then, I'll go get my umbrella and walk you there!"

"You don't have to do that; I live quite nearby," Verity tried to protest, but it was no use. George was already bounding up the stairs to fetch his umbrella. He returned just a few seconds later, carrying the biggest, orangest brolly that Verity had ever seen.

"You'll want to stand back," he informed her as they stepped outside, holding the umbrella as if it was a sword.

With a flick of his thumb, it made a disconcerting clanging noise and unfurled. Verity tilted her head to one side. George smiled and tugged on her arm, pulling her underneath the shelter of what, she thought, could only fairly be described as a _tent_. The bloody thing was big enough for at least five people. Even Hagrid probably would have found it to be a bit on the large side.

"Are you overcompensating for something, sir?" she asked, quirking an eyebrow.

George laughed. "Maybe you'll find out for your Christmas bonus. Now, Miss Saunders—" his smile widened when she groaned at his use of the incorrect name, "—which way?"

Sighing, she gestured in the direction of her flat. As they walked, Verity caught a glimpse of another redheaded man trudging through the snow — one who was taller and lankier than the twins, with horn-rimmed glasses.

"Hey," she said, tapping George's shoulder. "Isn't that your brother? The one who was Head Boy in our fifth year?"

He frowned. "Yes, that's Percy."

"Do you want to stop and say hello?"

"No." In a muttered undertone that Verity wasn't certain she was meant to hear, he added, "He probably wouldn't speak to me anyway, the prat."

Percy passed by a building with a particularly steep-pitched roof and a decent accumulation of snow on top, making a mischievous idea start to form in Verity's head. The matter was decided for her when, upon noticing George glaring at him, Percy stared at the ground and quickened his pace, pretending he hadn't seen his brother. Reaching into her pocket, Verity grasped her wand and whispered a spell that sent a sheet of snow cascading off of the roof and onto Percy.

George instantly found his smile again. Verity didn't think he realised it was her doing and not just a happy accident until he reached across the distance between them and gave her gloved hand a gentle, fleeting squeeze.

Verity held her breath as they drew near the entrance to Knockturn Alley. George froze.

"_Here_?" he whispered. "You live in _Knockturn Alley_?" Pursing his lips, he gave her an uncharacteristically stern look.

She knew it was dangerous — especially considering the fact that she was Muggleborn — but dodgy areas came with lower rents. Knockturn Alley was cheaper than even the worst areas of Muggle London, particularly when factoring in the cost of Tube fare to and from work.

Even though Fred and George paid her a fair salary, her dingy little studio flat was all she could afford.

"It's just inside the entrance," she said. "You don't have to accompany me, George. I'll be fine."

He scoffed. "Like hell I don't. Honestly..._Knockturn Alley_? I've half a mind to tell my mother on you. Does _your_ mother know where you—"

"My parents died when I was four."

"Oh. Err, bloody hell. I'm sorry, Verity."

She shrugged. "Don't worry about it. You didn't know. Now, if you _are_ going to insist on accompanying me, perhaps you'd better put that umbrella away, or at least temporarily transfigure it into something a bit less...conspicuous."

George nodded, and with a tap of his wand, the umbrella shrank and shifted into a plain grey colour. He followed her lead, keeping his eyes trained on the ground as they rushed past windows that glimmered with all manner of Dark artefacts. In less than a minute, they reached their destination.

"Here we are," Verity said, waving her hand at the empty fortune teller's shop. "My flat is upstairs. Err, do you want to come up for a cup of tea before you head back?"

He did.

-oOo-

"I don't think your photograph likes me very much," George said, chuckling at the magical photo that Verity had taken of her grandparents upon completing her first year at Hogwarts. Both of the photograph's subjects pulled sour faces as George stared at them.

Verity smiled, handing him a steaming mug of milky tea. "It's nothing against you personally," she said. "It's because they can see your wand."

George glanced down at the front of his trousers with wide eyes, making Verity sputter with laughter through a sip of tea. With an amused half-grin, he tucked the wand she'd _actually_ been talking about into his pocket.

"They don't like magic?" he asked.

"It's not that. It's just...when I started at Hogwarts, I learned a few things that made them reluctant to trust most magical people."

"Oh? Like what?"

She didn't intend to tell him, but one look at his kind expression and the truth came pouring out, as if she'd spiked her own tea with Veritaserum.

"For my fourth birthday," she said, "I went on a trip to London with my family — that's my grandparents in the picture, there. We were walking along the river, and for some reason my grandparents and I hung back while my mum and dad walked ahead. I think maybe we stopped to tie my shoe or something silly like that. And then, suddenly there was this deafening boom that shook the ground. I don't remember it very well—" she let out a bitter gasp of laughter at her inadvertent pun, "—but I do remember a policeman telling us that a gas main had exploded, killing twelve people. It was the first of November, 1981."

George cursed, prompting the photographic image of Verity's grandmother to waggle her finger at him.

"Imagine my surprise when, years later, I learned about Sirius Black — well, now we know it wasn't really Black who did it, but we didn't back then. It wasn't an accident at all; they were murdered, by a wizard. I got upset and told my grandparents that our memories of that day had been tampered with. They weren't pleased, as you can probably imagine."

He gave her the most solemn nod she'd ever seen from him, and Verity hated it. His face looked all wrong without his usual ever-present grin.

"Mr. Weas..._George_," she said. "Please don't look at me like that. I'm luckier than so many people, y'know. I can take anyone's pity but yours."

"I wasn't pitying you," he replied, his lips turning up at the corners. "I was wondering how best to go about charming you out of your knickers. Is that insensitive of me?"

Verity adored him for lying to her in an attempt to lighten the mood. In that moment, she knew exactly why everyone always said that laughter was the best medicine. Her spirits seemed to lift with every chuckle that passed through her lips. Clutching her side, she leaned against George as mirth overcame her.

His expression morphed into a curious, inscrutable smile, his gaze flickering back and forth between Verity's eyes and her mouth. For a few, stomach-fluttering seconds, she thought he was going to kiss her.

Instead, he gave her short blonde hair an affectionate tousle and announced that he should probably head back, before the sun set completely. Verity stood at her front window, watching over him until he made it to the comparative safety of Diagon Alley.

From that point on, it was no longer difficult for her to tell Fred and George apart. George was the one whose mouth always turned into that same mysterious little smile. Before long, she started to think of it as the smile he reserved for her alone.

-oOo-

"Happy early Christmas!" Fred said, shoving a large, messily wrapped box into Verity's hands.

The tag that dangled off of the sparkly ribbon read, "_To: our favourite employee, With love from: Fred and George_."

Verity grinned. "I'm your only employee."

"Which means you're also our _least_ favourite, but we decided to be nice," Fred said.

George nodded. "Spirit of the season and all. Speaking of which, Mum wanted us to invite you to Christmas dinner at the Burrow."

By the way Fred quirked his eyebrow at this statement, Verity wondered if Mrs. Weasley was even aware that the invitation was being offered.

"Oh, um," she stammered. "That's very sweet, but I already have plans to visit my grandmother all that week. Tell her I said thank you, though." Peering at the box in her hands, she added, "And thank you for this. I wish I would've got you two someth—"

Fred stopped her with a wave of his hand. "I reckon you already got us enough by being the designated vomit-cleaner-upper. Think of this more as a Christmas bonus."

At the words "Christmas bonus," George shot her a wink and waggled his eyebrows. Suppressing a giggle, she tore the green and red paper off of her gift. Inside, she found every defence item that was carried by the shop: several Decoy Detonators, a generous tin of Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder, a Shield Cloak, a Shield Hat, and a pair of Shield Gloves. Nestled next to the Decoy Detonators, there was another item: a plain black umbrella.

"The umbrella has a Shield Charm, too," George said. "And the pocket of the cloak has an Undetectable Extension Charm, so the Detonators and Darkness Powder should easily fit inside."

"Wow," Verity murmured. "Thanks." Standing on her tiptoes, she pressed a quick kiss to Fred's cheek, followed by George's. Fred responded with a cocky smirk, while George offered Verity her favourite little half-smile.

"Just promise you'll use them," George said, pulling the midnight blue cloak out of the box and draping it over her shoulders.

She nodded. "I will."

-oOo-

"Voici mon secret," Verity read aloud, resting her free hand on the papery skin of her grandmother's forearm. "Il est très simple: on ne voit bien qu'avec le cœur. L'essentiel est invisible pour les yeux."

"You speak French?" a surprised, familiar voice said.

Verity gave a startled jump, the well-loved, timeworn copy of _Le Petit Prince_ slipping from her slackened grip. Its pages fluttered as it crashed to the linoleum floor. Fred and George grinned at her from their position in the doorway of her grandmother's room. Overall, they had done rather well at disguising themselves as Muggles, opting for bland, ordinary jeans, t-shirts, and trainers. Only their dragon-skin coats made them stand out as strange and unusual.

"A little," Verity replied, picking the book up and setting it on the bedside table. "My mother was French."

"Verity, who eez thees?" her grandmother murmured, her accent still as thick as if she'd just hopped across the English Channel the day before.

"These are my bosses, Mémé," Verity said. "Fred and George Weasley. Mr. Weasley, Mr. Weasley, this is my grandmother, Madame Chevalier."

"Pleased to meet you," Fred said, cradling one of Madame Chevalier's withered hands in his and kissing her knuckles.

Verity shook her head, biting back a chuckle. Always the consummate flirt, even when the woman in question was over eighty years old. Fidgeting in her chair, she cast an inquiring look at George.

"How did you know where to find me?" she asked.

"Oh, we have our _ways_," he replied with a wink.

Fred snorted. "Yeah. Ways that involve the address book you left in the staff room," he said, looking completely unabashed at having admitted to snooping through her things. "We just thought we'd take a break from the sprout-peeling excitement happening at the Burrow and brighten your day."

George leaned down and placed his mouth right next to Verity's ear. "And maybe show your gran that not all wizards are bad," he added in a whisper, his breath warm against her neck.

Before Verity could protest, they situated themselves on either side of her grandmother.

Madame Chevalier was reluctant and wary at first, as she always was when meeting new wizards, but before long the twins had her laughing again and again. The first chuckle came when Fred batted his eyelashes and turned up the charm in an attempt to coax an embarrassing story about Verity out of her. It didn't work, but Madame Chevalier apparently couldn't help but find his attempts amusing.

For her part, Verity didn't pay much attention to the chatter. She simply watched, simultaneously bemused and grateful. Not since Verity's grandfather died and she was forced to sell their house to cover the cost of placing Madame Chevalier in a care home had she witnessed such genuine cheer from her grandmother.

"Do you want to see some card tricks?" George asked, pulling a deck of Muggle playing cards out of his coat pocket and shuffling them with an expert flourish. "A girl in my parents' village tells me they're almost like real magic."

"Oh, _are_ zey?" Madame Chevalier said with a bark of laughter, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "'Ow astonishing! Next you will show me your amazing disappearing act, I suppose? Ze one zat eez accompanied by a loud bang?" She shook her head. "Do you always trick ze..._ordinary_ girls in zis way?"

"Madame Chevalier!" Fred said, holding a hand up to his chest and giving her a look of mock astonishment. "We would never accuse you of being anything other than extraordinary."

George looked over at Verity then, his lips curving into a small, triumphant smile. Verity knew they hadn't sold Madame Chevalier on all wizards, of course, but she'd never seen her grandmother warm to other magical people so quickly. In spite of the gloomy, cloudy winter sky outside the window, Verity felt as if the sun was shining.

"Thank you," she mouthed.

Shrugging his shoulders, George grinned at her. "Anytime."

-oOo-

Months passed by, in a blur of joking flirtation and counted change and thwarted shoplifters. And then, one day in late July, George was hurt.

Verity didn't know it had happened until he sneaked out from underneath his mother's watchful eye to check up on the shop. She'd thought that the only reason he and Fred had to take a few days off was to help out with their oldest brother's wedding; she had no idea they were up to anything dangerous.

"George!" she exclaimed, her jaw falling open as he sauntered through the door during her morning preparations. Misty, pink light from the rising sun shone through the window behind him, highlighting the gaping hole in the side of his head where his ear had once been. "What on earth happened to you?"

"Would you believe me if I said it was a tragic accident with a vegetable peeler?" he asked, attempting a laugh.

She swatted his chest. "I'm serious. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. It's not as bad as it looks. Doesn't even hurt now. I just ended up on the wrong end of a curse, that's all."

"That's _all_," she echoed in a hollow voice. "Are you going to be able to have it fixed? Can a Healer regrow it?"

"Ah, no. It's permanent. I'm going to look this hideous forever, apparently."

She frowned. "Well, I don't think you're hideous. You look...rather dashing."

George raised his eyebrows. "Have an amputee fetish, do you?"

"Oh, yes." She tried to sound serious, but couldn't keep her nose from wrinkling and a laugh from slipping out. "Cut off your leg, too, and I'll be all yours."

"Hmm. A steep price, but it might be worth it." Stepping closer, he wiped a smudge of Nosebleed Nougat off of her arm with the pad of his thumb. "I can't stay long; Mum will _not_ be pleased if she realises I'm gone. I just wanted to make sure you're still okay with running the shop on your own for a few days. We can always shut it down during the wedding."

"Oh, no. Don't worry about me. I'll be fine."

"You sure? You know you're welcome to attend the wedding. I'll even save a dance for you."

Verity caught her lower lip between her teeth. "Just one?"

"Have to save _something_ for the Veela cousins, don't I?"

This was not what Verity wanted to hear. The idea of watching him flirt with pretty French witches all evening while she sat alone and waited for her one dance made her heart sink.

Smiling sadly, she nodded. "I think I'll just take care of things around here. Have fun at the wedding, George."

"Oh." His teasing grin fell. "All right, yeah. See you, Verity."

As George left, Verity saw an almost identical man fall into step beside him. Fishing her trusty Extendable Ear out of her pocket, she held one end up to her ear and tucked the other underneath the shop door.

"Well?" Fred said. "What happened?"

"It, err, didn't go exactly as planned."

"Oh. She said no when you asked her to be your date to the wedding?"

"Well, I didn't phrase it _exactly_ like that..."

"Oh, bollocks," Verity muttered.

She flung the door open, fully intending to catch George and tell him she'd changed her mind, but when she made it out into the street, she was just in time to see the twins apparate away. Groaning, she leaned against the shop window.

She had no way of knowing it at the time, but it would be very fortunate indeed that she was not among the wedding guests.

-oOo-

Early in the morning on the second of August, before even the birds were awake, someone roused Verity from a deep sleep by pounding on her front door.

With her heart thudding in her ears, she threw on her Shield Cloak, Gloves, and Hat and drew her wand.

"Who is it?" she called, wondering if Death Eaters would really bother with the courtesy of knocking first.

"George Weasley," was the muffled reply. "You work for me and my twin at Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. I thought your surname was Saunders before we hired you, and you have studious boobs."

Satisfied that it was really George, Verity let him in. He swept past her, slamming and locking the door behind himself, his rumpled formal robes making swishing noises with every rapid movement.

"Thank Merlin," he whispered, pulling her into a tight embrace. "Listen, we don't have much time. The Ministry is under the control of the Death Eaters — they attacked the wedding. We reckon Muggleborns are being rounded up as we speak." Pausing, he shoved a rucksack into her hands. "Here. Fred and I thought this might happen eventually, so we've been saving...it's all converted into Muggle money already."

"George, I—" she stammered.

"I want you to take this, get your gran, and leave the country. Go to the Continent or America or someplace safe. Don't tell me where, just in case..."

The words he didn't say hung in the air, heavy and frightening and bone-chilling: _In case I'm captured and tortured_.

Verity didn't believe he would ever hand her over, even if he was subjected to the Cruciatus — not for a second.

"Leave your stuff. Fred and I will find somewhere to store it for you. I promise I won't let him go through your underwear drawer. Just get what you need..._pathports _or whatever those Muggle travel papers are called."

Dropping the rucksack to the floor, Verity launched herself at him. She knew it could be her last chance. With a quiet exclamation of surprise, he caught her, wrapping his arms around her waist. Their lips connected in a messy, desperate kiss, their teeth knocking together as they both opened their mouths. The awkwardness and pain didn't distract them. His tongue swept past her lips a heartbeat later, his embrace tightening, leaving her giddy and breathless.

"Damn," he muttered, pulling back to give her a rueful grin. "Should have done that bloody ages ago."

Just as his mouth covered hers once more, the sound of glass shattering in the alley outside made them break apart.

"Come on," he whispered. "I'll see you to Muggle London."

With trembling fingers, Verity rummaged through her drawers. She took only her passport, her wallet, and a still Muggle photo of her parents and grandparents. Her grandmother's passport would be among her things at the care home.

"Ready?" George asked, holding out his hand.

After tucking her meagre possessions into the rucksack, she nodded, put up her hood, and laced her fingers together with his. They raced down the worn stone steps that led from her flat to the shop below. When they reached the cobbled surface of Knockturn Alley, the sky was already lighter than it had been when George arrived.

Verity struggled to keep up with George's long strides. The seconds stretched out as they hurried towards safety, time turning into a strange, sticky thing, slow and thick like treacle. The few people they passed were likewise in a hurry. Everyone they saw became a potential enemy.

Verity didn't let herself breathe properly until they passed through the Leaky Cauldron. The instant their feet hit Muggle pavement, George held her close and kissed her as if he'd never see her again.

For all they knew, he probably wouldn't.

"George," she whispered, her fingers digging into his shoulders, as though she thought they could stay together if only she clung to him hard enough. "I don't know how...I just...thank you. Thank Fred for me."

He nodded. "Be safe."

"You too."

And then, with one last, fierce kiss, she turned and ran away from him, away from England, away from nearly everything she'd ever known.

-oOo-

As far as the occupants of Brooke Saunders' village were aware, she was a perfectly normal young woman. She worked as a maid, had a decent grasp of French (save the differences between Standard French and Swiss French, though she picked those up with time), and lived with her ailing grandmother.

Miss Saunders kept to herself, for the most part, exchanging pleasantries with her neighbours on her way to work, but never getting into any in-depth conversations. Even her grandmother's nurse, who saw Miss Saunders in closer proximity than most, didn't often suspect her of anything more unusual than shyness.

Only, now and then, Miss Saunders seemed to come out of her shell when a strangely-dressed visitor passed through. The second she saw a man wearing a mumu or a woman in dungarees and a silk top hat, her eyes lit up and she grew bold. Even though the travellers were seldom British, she always wanted to know if they had any news of her homeland. A few times, she was overheard asking in frantic, hushed English about a big, final battle: when was it going to take place? She wanted to join in.

When asked by Arielle Broussard, the neighbourhood gossip, Miss Saunders claimed that the "big battle" was simply an event in some online video game that she played. Everyone seemed to take this as a suitable explanation. Introverted people often immersed themselves in video games, right? The villagers supposed that it made sense that Miss Saunders was drawn to people with such eccentric fashion taste, given that weird midnight blue cloak she was so fond of wearing.

By the time the peculiarly dressed strangers finished speaking with Miss Saunders and went on their way, they often had a dazed look about them, as if they'd forgotten where they were — as if they had never met her before.

She never spoke to them again after that.

In the evenings, when her grandmother's nurse was preparing to go home, she often found Miss Saunders sitting in her unlit kitchen, staring out at the night sky. She didn't think Miss Saunders intended for her to hear the whispered, hopeful words that she uttered into the darkness.

"Be safe."

-oOo-

"Verity?"

Gasping, Verity spun around, nearly dropping her bag of groceries. Angelina Johnson stood before her: a living, breathing reminder of her past.

Oh, thank goodness. Finally, someone she could trust — someone she wouldn't have to Obliviate once she'd received the answers she wanted.

"Angelina!" Verity exclaimed, returning the other woman's friendly smile.

"Bonjour, Brooke," a cheerful, portly woman said, nodding at Verity as she bustled past the two former schoolmates.

"Bonjour, Emmanuelle," Verity replied.

"Brooke?" Angelina asked, raising her eyebrows.

"Long story," Verity said, a secret smile curving her lips as she thought about the origin of her pseudonym. She loved that it was cobbled together from the two names George had guessed as her surname. It gave her a connection to him, no matter how tenuous.

Angelina gave her an understanding nod. "I think I can guess."

"What are you doing here?"

"I'm on holiday with Katie and Alicia. We decided that we needed some time away to celebrate—" pain flickered across her expression, "—and heal."

Verity's breath caught in her throat. Had she missed it? She'd wanted to return to the UK for the final battle, help defeat Death Eaters, and do her part instead of hiding out for the entirety of the war. She'd wanted to save up enough to pay Fred and George back, though really, she owed them so much more than money. Without them, she wouldn't have been able to pay for her grandmother to get in-home care. Without them, she would have spent the past several months on the run, dodging Snatchers and fearing for her life.

"Celebrate?" Verity whispered.

Angelina's eyes widened. "Don't tell me you haven't heard! I guess you've been rather cut off from everything, haven't you? Harry won — about a month ago now. It's over."

Clasping a hand over her mouth, Verity let out an embarrassing squeak of elation. _Home_. She was going to be able to go home. She'd see Fred and George and her school friends and she'd hug them and hug them until her arms were sore.

But, oh God, how many of them were left?

"Angelina," she said, her voice wavering as cold, hard reality caught up with her happy daydream. "Th-the casualties? How many?"

Closing her eyes, Angelina swallowed. "Too many," she whispered.

-oOo-

Diagon Alley seemed like a new town — bursting with life and energy. There were scars here and there, of course: destroyed shops, broken windows, and gracious, what on earth had happened to Gringotts? Still, the Wizarding World was rebuilding, starting fresh.

Verity sighed, feeling a bittersweet sort of warmth flood through her body. It seemed right that she was returning to this place on the fifth of June, two years to the day after her interview at Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes.

And then, there it was: just as dazzling as she remembered it, in spite of the piles of rubble. Number 93.

It would never be entirely the same — _not now_, she realised with a swell of grief — but it was still there. It was still standing, still challenging people to find the humour in things when there wasn't much to laugh about.

Wiping her suddenly damp eyes, she peeked through the window. On the far side of the shop, Percy and Ron worked together, reassembling shelves. Verity smiled to see the brother who once wouldn't even speak to George reunited with him.

George stood in the centre of the shop, leaning on a broom, surrounded by the broken bits of his dream. He looked like an old man.

Squaring her shoulders, Verity opened the door.

"We're clos—" George began, his irritated voice cutting off with a gasp when he looked up and saw who was standing there. His broom clattered to the floor, kicking up a cloud of dust.

"Hi," she said, her voice choked and hoarse. Stepping forward, she extended her hand towards him. One surreptitious wave of her wand later, and a pair of neon pink underwear that were adorned with cartoonish drawings of flying pigs appeared in her fingers.

Instead of shaking her hand, George swept her into his arms and pressed his lips against hers. She relished the feel of him — real and solid and safe. Her heart picked up speed, beating double-time when George made a soft, contented murmur and smiled into the kiss.

"Hi," she repeated, grinning up at him as he pulled back.

Laughing, he grasped her hand.

"Nice pants."

_The End_

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_**A/N:**__ The line that Verity reads in French is from _The Little Prince_ by_ _Antoine de Saint Exupéry__. In English, it translates to: "Here is my secret. It is very simple: It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye." Thanks for reading! :)_


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